The Ferelden Theatre: Aut Pax Aut Bellum
by Apollo Wings - KnaveOfAngst
Summary: An alliance that will unite Ferelden or tear her apart, decisions that will cost more than what was first realised and within that, a kernel of love that grows from the ashes of a battlefield where many are lost. AU will abound as the chapters move on. Please review or PM with thoughts and if I make a grammar/spelling mistake do say! Rated T for now but may go up in time.
1. An Alliance

Author Note: This is a gift fic for Spectre4Hire using the prompt;

"The night of the Dark Ritual, M!Cousland refuses, uncomfortable with the implications of it and Morrigan's unwillingness to share her plans for the child with the old god's soul. Unable to sleep after she departs, and overwhelmed by Riordan's revelation he finds himself going to Anora's room, his future wife."

Now while this starts a while beforehand, the prompt will be part of the fic, and it will go past it in timeline events too. My muse quite liked the idea you see... Ergo, more story for Spectre4Hire!

Disclaimer: Bioware/EA/David Gaider have the intellectual rights of all of Dragon Age and any ideas spawned from the world. A shame, tis true - but without them who could say we'd create these stories?

* * *

Stephen found himself enjoying the luxuries afforded to him in Eamon Guerrin's estate, so long on the dusty roads, living as a rebel had turned a man who had once seen swordplay and archery an exercise into a formidable opponent to man and darkspawn alike. However, it did not mean he could not find solace in the porcelain lined copper tub in front of the blazing hearth of his personal room, languidly soaking in the potent smelling elfroot infused waters, his muscles allowed to relax for a brief moment of time in this war-torn world.

He dipped under the waters, surfacing with a deep breath of the steaming air, the water dripping off his face. He wiped his hands over the trimmed beard that edged his jaw, a facial tick at feeling the raised ridges of the scars on his cheek and nose. The broodmother deep in the bowels of the Dwarven Empire, a place lost to time and care still gave him nightmares. She had spewed viscous stomach acid in a last ditch attempt to kill her attackers, in doing so permanently marking the skin from the side of his nose to cheekbone under his eye. He felt the long, raised lines where werewolves in the Brecillian Forest had slashed from his brow almost to his jawbone, deep enough almost to cleave the flesh off were it not for the healing talents of Senior Enchanter Wynne.

The former noble shuddered, lost reliving some of the worst of his injuries that marred his skin now, reminders of all he'd been through since the fateful night his household had been slaughtered at the hands of one once thought of as friend.

It gave him a macabre sense of peace to know Rendon Howe had died on the end of his sword, rotting now in his dungeon for his part of the coup in kidnapping Queen Anora. A flashback nearly consumed him of his father, his lifeblood coating a dirty pantry floor; of his nursemaid with her throat slashed nearly to decapitation; his sweet nephew, run through in his sleep; his fierce mother, demanding to stay by her husband's side when all she could see was a chance for one of her kin to live, covering his escape from their burning castle; his greatest friend Ser Roland Gilmore, defending his liege lord to the death. It was not enough for Rendon Howe to have died the way he did. It should have been a public hanging, rotten vegetables thrown at the bastard. It should have been the dull axe of a headsman and the humiliation and pain that came alongside shoddy blows. At least he was dead and his family and friends avenged but the pain of that night would not fade so easily.

A knock sounded on the door. Stephen looked pointedly toward it, blinking droplets of water as he shook with a vitriolic anger still. "Ser Warden?"

"I'm in here." He answered, recognising the voice to be that of Nigella, the housekeeper of Arl Eamon's estate.

"The Queen wishes to speak with you after supper."

"Eight bells then." He answered curtly, sighing heavily. The former noble stood carefully, the water running in rivulets down the muscles he had gained in his year fighting a cause he had never imagined doing so. He was more tanned than most noblemen by birth, Couslands were a pale tan due to their northern place in the country but hours in all weathers, the sun beating down as he trained in camp, his shirt taken off to spare the fabric his sweat had made his skin darken much more.

Stephen grabbed a fluffy towel, a moment reflecting the changes physically to him as he dabbed his skin dry. He made sure to dry thoroughly before stepping onto the carpets, while conscientious before, life dealing with the responsibilities as unofficial leader of his, for lack of a better term, mercenary group, had made him aware of the workload done by others quite acutely. He watched the figure drying waves of tangled brown hair in the Tevinter silver backed glass, almost a different man to the one he had seen what felt like an age ago.

Gone was any softness remaining of his childhood, replaced by lean muscle that lined his body, the broad shoulders of an archer with the sinewy tendons of a soldier. Bryland green eyes raked over his body with a critical eye, a moue of distaste ever so often flitting across Cousland features as they spied silvery scars and mottled burns. Stephen sighed, knowing that fixating on his body would do more harm than good, dressing in clean leather britches, a white linen shirt and finally a velvet doublet lent him by Teagan Guerrin.

He glanced at the shadows of the room, knowing his paranoia but finding solace in nervous habit. He could not feel safe anymore and so strapped his sword belt around his middle sheathed his family sword in the scabbard and walked as casually as he could even with the tension under his skin to the dining hall.

So Queen Anora Mac Tir wanted to speak with him. It was expected of course, but what they would speak of would be interesting.

* * *

Anora took a deep breath in, or as large a one possible with her corsets. It made her feel silly, worrying about talking to a man whom she had known since they were children. Albeit, it had been Stephen and Fergus who had been her only equals growing up, fellow children in Gwaren seeing her as above them and many noble-born children as a black sheep in their midst for her birth. They played knights and damsels. Fergus and she always made Stephen be the damsel and yet the man she knew as a boy had rescued her from the clutches of Rendon Howe, bringing evidence that they were played as fools by the man for too long.

The vellum stretched on her desktop, reminding her that the former Arl of Amaranthine had hoped she would divorce Cailan so his daughter Delilah could marry her late husband, or that she would submit to marriage with his drunken sop of a son in Thomas.

What a man might do to have his sires on the throne and his grandchildren ruling legitimately one day. The thought made her clench her teeth, remembering that the Cousland family had been slain like cattle in part of this plan so no better suitor might arise for her. The Bryland family had been safe because it had been Cailan who had died rather than she divorced but she could not put aside the thought that Rendon Howe would have killed the Arl of South Reach and his daughter to remove Habren Bryland from the competition for her late husband's hand.

A dangerous game they played and it seemed two participants would need talk soon. Anora looked with glazed icy blue eyes at the woman in the mirror as her handmaiden Erlina brushed her flaxen hair. Her posture was regal, five years of bearing the strain of the throne would do that to anyone, and she could call herself pretty, if not beautiful to some extent with her full lips, high cheekbones and the pale complexion of a Lady. Yet she did not see what Ferelden wanted to be there, a mother of the next in line for the throne.

Five years she had tried to conceive, phantom pregnancies and mild hysteria following her courses blurring into what happier memories Anora had of her marriage. Ferelden had called her barren, the Maker's wrath for placing someone of common blood on the throne alongside Theirin blood. Cailan had many mistresses, and official mistresses too - yet none had borne him a bastard either. If either of them had been the cause to their lack of children it had been he, but too enraptured by the boyish charm and his lineage, none could admit it.

"My lady, you look terribly upset." Erlina cooed to her, a bright smile on the elf's features. Anora smiled weakly back at the reflection of the Orlesian handmaiden.

"Just remembering Erlina, remembering what difficulties I must always face." She sighed heavily again, trying to retain her poise.

"Then you will always face them elegantly my lady, as you have always done." Erlina worked quickly in braiding and plaiting her hair until it was coiled into her usual style of two buns at the nape of her neck, secured with pins. She dismissed the handmaiden as she dabbed rose-scented oil just under her jaw and on her wrists.

There was much to be said to Stephen Cousland.

* * *

Stephen took a deep breath after finishing his meal, glancing cautiously at his hosts. Arl Eamon and Arlessa Isolde were counting on his supporting Alistair in a bid for the throne. The man had no heart for it though and lacked the convictions required of a leader. Although, if he had not taken the reins of leadership, Ferelden might be in an atrocious state under Alistair leading their crusade since the loss of the entire Grey Warden ranks at the Battle of Ostagar.

Not that he hated the ex-Templar turned Grey Warden, but he was without cunning or initiative. Alistair was too... righteous and barefaced. A leader of anything, let alone a country could not afford to be so plain with enemies. Alistair could fight, he was trained well with the sword and shield - but he was no tactician either. In short, his reign would be disastrous and short, ended with a civil war that could tear the country apart as surely as the Blight would.

"You look rather dashing today Warden," He raised his eyebrows at the purred voice in his ear, used to the innuendo dripping in the Antivan accent far too much. "For my benefit or that of one of the deadly beauties in our entourage?"

"And you Zevran are a brazen liar trying to remove my britches." He rolled his eyes, glancing at the tattooed elven assassin. His golden eyes flashed cheekily, his smile lopsided.

"Tsk tsk, the man sees through me so easily. Alas, I shall sleep alone." He put a hand to his forehead, feigning dramatics as he swivelled into a chair, picking up a ripe plum and eating half in one bite. Stephen pushed off the table, taking in the amused expression Isolde tried to hide behind her soupspoon and the vague choking sound Eamon made on his bread.

They probably weren't used to such plain foods but all his time on the road, crossing the country on foot had given him and the group her travelled with no appetite for rich foods, soup with bread, cheese and fruit was more than variety for them. As his _gracious_ hosts, they accommodated for their tastes.

He'd never have imagined he'd be running away from bed-partners, as an unmarked man he had his fair share of attention from men and women alike even if his tendencies stayed to the fairer sex. However, battle-scarred and paranoid he should have bought a stick if only to beat them off, so many advances he had had in that time! Morrigan had tried to seduce him until she finally got the hint, slipping into his tent late at night in barely any clothes, pretending to be a weak woman. Leliana had fumbled compliments of his clothes and hair; no doubt, a failed attempt in gaining the trust of a Ferelden noble for the woman was an Orlesian bard, renowned for their work as spies with no morals. Then there was Zevran, the elven assassin oozed sex toward anything with two legs and most of their teeth which so happened to include him.

Stephen thanked the Maker that the elderly healer Wynne had not come onto him, that Alistair had not tried to get him alone in his tent and that Sten did not want to convert him to the Qun. Oghren almost did not count because he had been so drunk when he assumed anyone who would carry him out of the elements to put him in a tent had been a woman, grabbing him around the neck and trying to do an Orlesian dance with his mouth.

He could safely say the only female that had shared his bedroll or cot for more than a year was twenty stone, enjoyed rolling in fox droppings and answered to the name Della. The mabari who was currently whining at his knee under the table, pawing at his boot. Stephen held a hand underneath, relaxing as she licked her wide tongue on his fingers. Della could always calm him even when he retreated into the recesses of his mind. "I think I may take a walk. If you'd excuse me?" He asked of his host. Della loped under the table toward Oghren who as the dog had found, dropped a lot of food.

Eamon waved him off, probably assured that he would be on board for putting Alistair on the throne and malleable to his desires. No, this was going to be a statement to the elder Guerrin brother; he would not be the puppeteer pulling the strings that lead to the throne. His sister may have been the mother of the late King Cailan and he a close advisor of the late King but Stephen had seen the missives in Cailan's lockbox in Ostagar. Eamon was dangerous to Ferelden. For now, it was a game; played close to the enemy and trying to placate him publicly before he could make the back-room deals that would destroy the country.

He shuddered inside with a sharp intake of breath at the thought of Alistair upon the throne, married to a pliable chit from western Orlais, hopefully for the elder Guerrin with a secret with which he could blackmail her. There would be war, and there would be a direct death toll because of that to those who had no part in the fight.

He stopped outside the room that Anora had requisitioned for herself, as was her right as the Queen. His hands shook, heart hammering in his chest. There should be nothing he feared, not after the horrors he had faced. Yet standing outside the room of a woman he had known since he was a child, running wild and covered in mud. If anyone would see the changes that had happened to him, it would be her.

* * *

Anora startled from her thin soup at the knock on the door, all business as if it was of a bailiff collecting rent money. The Queen straightened out, moving the tray to the desk and quickly checking her face in the mirror for any unfortunate dribbles of tea or soup or crumbs on her cornflower blue dress. She did not dine with Erlina, she was her handmaiden and a more amicable acquaintance but there were times that she preferred her own company. It might have been an idea just for the last minute touches the handmaiden could do that refined her appearance though.

Happy that she did not look a state she bid the man she assumed was on the other side to enter. Men who lead crusades of any kind ate as if they had no time to enjoy their food; she had assumed no less of him. The door opened slowly before the man on the other side stood in the doorjamb. "Stephen. It's been a long time."

The man she had once known cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable in finery not tailored for him compared to the confident figure he cut in measured mail and plate. "It has," Anora gestured towards the plush seats near the fire, moving alongside the Grey Warden as he sat down. "You look well, I trust Eamon has seen to your needs?"

"Erlina was thorough in having my needs met here, thank you. Do you find your own accommodations so... accommodating?" She tried a smile but found she was unable to with the sombre shadows that the man possessed, his face that of a veteran and not of the young, dashing man he had once been. The world seemed to weigh on his broad shoulders but he had not broken yet, that much was clear by the pride inherent in his stance and walk.

"They have been pleasant, but I assume you didn't want to speak on our temporary lodgings." Stephen looked down at his lap and the empty scabbard he wore, his hand searching for the leather banded metal as if for comfort. It was a motion Anora had seen many times in her own father, lost without the crutch of a weapon. He was quite chivalrous, not carrying a weapon into a Ladies' bedchamber. She watched his face and the nervous twitch of his lips as his fingers brushed where the hilt of the sword could be held.

"I wanted to pass on my deepest condolences about the... murders of your household. While I have never felt the heartache I can understand what pain you're going through." He looked up, his scarred face genuinely shocked, deep green eyes blinking while the man remained mute. After he found his tongue, he cleared his throat.

"It's a fate I could never wish on my greatest enemy. Nevertheless, my Queen, the dead gain nothing for speaking of them and neither do we. We might do well to speak on what our host has planned which will greatly effect both of our futures should it go unchecked." Anora did not miss the way he said 'my Queen' without any hesitation or sycophancy, neither the veiled words against the man sheltering them in his estate. If she were honest, she would not trust Eamon Guerrin as far as she could throw the man.

"Yes, Eamon plans on placing your fellow, Alistair, on the throne. I'm sure he is biddable enough but Kingly material, I believe not." She said plainly, content to see what the man opposite her would say to that. Stephen raised an eyebrow, a smile flitting on the more scarred side of his face for a moment.

"Biddable to be sure but not of Kingly cloth as you suspected. Alistair, to put it simply would be an appalling fate for Ferelden to have, a man who cannot decide which foot to put ahead the other without a guided hand and Arl Eamon would take advantage of a trust imprinted on the boy from a young age. Both you and I can see he would be the power behind the throne." He moved a hand inside his doublet and removed thick wads of vellum from within.

"It was a long game Eamon has played to be sure, one that may have been fruitless but for the unfortunate circumstances near a year ago." Anora admitted freely.

"Indeed, and Alistair finds those very events to be damning on your father. I however find other evidence that is more damning than abandoning a lost battlefield," His gaze never lost intensity as he passed the vellum over as if it were a holy relic. More evidence against Howe? Oh why had her father allied with the late snake in their midst! "This was recovered from the bodies of slavers in the Denerim Alienage and from your late husband's lockbox left in Ostagar."

Anora took the papers as though they were fragile, casting a critical eye on them. If her father had taught her anything, it was to be cynical of anything you heard and half of anything you read. The immediate piece of information that glared at her was the handwriting of her late husband and his colloquial style of speaking even in the words on the page. It was Cailan, if anyone could tell for sure it would be her. Anora scanned the letters between him and Eamon, he and Empress Celene of Orlais. It was upsetting in some respects that he took almost no loyalty to her. She had known of his official mistresses and they were expected. However, to divorce her, to think of marrying into the royalty of the country that had only enslaved Ferelden twenty-eight short years ago. It was as if he had spite toward the grafting of his father and hers, freeing their country.

She braced herself for what slaver documents may entail, speak of selling peoples for coin and such, if they were vile, the acts that would be forced on those people. What Anora hadn't braced herself for was the graphic detailing of hiding the slaving by poisoning the water supply to the Alienages of Ferelden, a hoax plague to bring in 'healers' who shipped the 'sick' elves off to the Tevinter Imperium. The Alienages of Highever and Amaranthine were stripped of all elves that could do any work, the Denerim Alienage had barely been touched but enough had been taken. Gwaren had yet to be touched upon and she thanked the Maker for small favours.

It had been a slaving ring, planned in utmost detail and signed by 'Teyrn' Rendon Howe of Highever, and the Regent of Ferelden. Her father. Anora swallowed thickly, that was not her father, the man that had shown the world that the elves could be a powerful weapon against unsuspecting, well-trained chevaliers with his Night Elves during the Rebellion. He was a defender of the rights of the elves in Gwaren. That he could even contemplate this let alone sign such documents sickened the Queen. These were her subjects! As much as it pained her though, it was his strained, square hand. "I see. Much has been afoot that seems so detrimental to Ferelden let alone our families."

"I had hoped your father had not put his hand into the slavery. I cannot look at that without questioning some deeply held beliefs I had for a hero." Stephen admitted after his long silence as she read. She admired the fact he could be so candid.

"So it falls to those that live on legacy and are expected to continue it to fix these mistakes does it not?" Anora sighed. Stephen nodded glumly, tired if she was any judge of a man.

"It goes without saying that we both know the true power that was behind the throne of Ferelden in the wake of King Maric's death at sea and beyond. I would support your efforts in retaining your throne, even if our host has tried his best for three years to sway your late husband to remove you." Anora smiled, gladdened by this. "However, we both know why that may be incredibly dangerous not only for you but for Ferelden."

The silence dragged on, neither willing to admit what was left unspoken. Anora took the initiative, she was not ashamed. "Because I'm of common blood. The Landsmeet is filled with fools who would take nothing less than the blood of Calenhad on the throne."

"Calenhad was once nothing more than any man you see on the street, indeed, all our ancestry can be traced back to men who forged their nobility rather than being born into it. In your circumstances, that ancestor is not as long ago." He smiled weakly, a measured fixation on her face to gauge her reaction as she would his should she have said something that could be taken in the wrong way.

"Most of the nobility can trace themselves to Calenhad while I cannot." Anora put it primly.

"That is true; even I can claim a direct blood relation even if I do not bear the Theirin name." Stephen nodded; he idly scratched his jawbone and the deep brown hair that edged his face.

Neither seemed willing to speak further, in case of saying something the other might regret and making an enemy where none had been before. Stephen was the one to clear his throat this time, looking earnestly at her. "Five years ago, you will remember the Landsmeet almost making war that my father would not take the throne instead of Cailan and yourself. They would not be unopposed to the idea of his sole heir in that stead. This could mean war too, even if I decline when the Landsmeet is faced with common blood or an unknown bastard child, proclaimed as Maric's and never previously acknowledged by court."

"And you have proved yourself a very keen leader of men even against great hardships," Anora sighed. "That could tear this country apart as surely as Alistair taking the throne on his own or myself even if the Landsmeet did think them such viable solutions. The common man would revolt without their pomp and circumstance too."

"I apologise for any heroics others may think I possess." He chuckled lowly in his chest. "But if I may be so candid I do have an idea that may unite Ferelden."

Anora trained her face neutral, there were a few she could think of too, such as disbanding the Landsmeet but that railed against all her beliefs in the freedom of the individual that she had been brought up with, she would not be a tyrant but with the peoples of the Bannorn that held themselves higher than she simply because of a drop of blue blood Ages ago in their ancestry. It was almost deplorable! "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I hate to admit a truth behind the thinking of _Rendon Howe_," He spat the name out visibly reigning himself in by taking a deep breath. "but the most viable solution would be yourself on the throne married to a man of old noble blood, one who is your equal so they do not think it is just to placate them. My father always told me to think of the Landsmeet as simple is to underestimate one of the greatest forces in this country."

"Spoken truly." Anora nodded, sighing as much as her corsets allowed. She whetted her lips hoping herself not too forward. "I almost assumed you would propose a marriage between Alistair and me." Stephen made a face of unveiled disgust, one lip sneering upwards and his brows lowering. She fought the urge to laugh. "But it seems I assumed wrongly."

"Indeed you did!" He said gaily, almost as if he were the man he had once been, a glimpse shining for the briefest of moments. "If I may be so bold my Queen, but the greatest alliance Ferelden could have would be between the houses of Mac Tir and Cousland."

Anora stilled, pondering with questioning blue eyes the man in front of her, she gauged him as one would a potential partner. He was handsome, his scars mapping his defence of the country she had ruled for the past five years, his light tan skin have the brown-haired man a rugged charm and his eyes were more expressive than the rest of his ticks and nervous habits he most probably did not notice. In short, he was attractive to both her and as a man Ferelden would see as a protective, Warrior King. With the feats the young man had achieved to add to that, rumours of curing a curse of lycanthropy in the fabled Dalish elves, halting civil war amongst the dwarves by crowning a new King, finding a lost creation that made warriors of stone that succumbed to no injury, battling through a tower of crazed mages to save those that should not bear the punishment due to the bad apples and on top of that, finding the sacred ashes of the prophetess Andraste Herself. It was impressive even to imagine those feats, let alone to accomplish so much in a scant year. "Would you not give a woman some romance?" She breathed, feeling her cheeks heat for the thoughtless utterance.

"I could if you would wish it my lady," He blushed himself, a fleeting smile lighting up his rugged features. Stephen stood with careful grace, bending knee and removing a signet ring from his little finger. "Will you, Anora Mac Tir, do me the honour of becoming my wife? Not only to unite a broken country but to reinforce it and make Ferelden strong after so long viewed as ill-bred barbarians in the south of Thedas?" Her tongue felt heavy in mouth and her throat constricted as she saw the presented signet that had once belonged to the late Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, a multi-faceted emerald inlaid in the rosy gold mined from the Cliffs of Conobar. It had been the signature piece of jewellery the late mother of the man in front of her owned, and Stephen was presenting it to her as a gift of betrothal!

She found her poise, hating that this man made her feel like a simpleton peasant in comparison to the natural nobility he had. Not the stuffy nobility that people as Eamon Guerrin had where they became pompous and posturing, but he had the chivalry and grace that was becoming of true nobility. A cool logic passed over ridiculous romantic notions. "I ask many things if this is something you wish."

"Ask away." He declared, still on one knee with the ring presented between his index finger and thumb.

"It _will_ be a marriage between equals. I shall not be a coddled wife at your side. I want you to stand at my side, any grievances with decisions on rule or otherwise brought out in private. I will not be humiliated in public by a charismatic King pushing his ruling over something I say."

Stephen stood up, his hands seeking hers. He did not loom despite his physical presence. "I can guarantee that it would be a partnership between two strong equals. I will agree in public with anything said by you as you would I. We would present a united front as husband and wife."

"If..." She faltered, hating the strange fear that coiled in her stomach. "If you have any dalliances you will make them discreet or have official mistresses."

A severity came over his features, darkening them. "No."

"No?"

"I will not be unfaithful. Take it as a promise from the bottom of my very soul by I will not be disloyal once to you. It is not the sort of man I am." Anora nearly choked, her eyes closing, hoping her last request would not go unheeded.

"Then but one more thing." She breathed, eyes still closed.

"Say it and it is done."

"My father. Many would see his death for the events of Ostagar and if the information in these documents becomes known, it will be expected. Spare him what he has left of his life and I will swear in front of the Maker that we will join in matrimony." Her bottom lip trembled, hoping that it was not too much. Her father was still her hero, he always would be. He was the man that oversaw that she was a shield maiden, unscrupulous to her enemies and an epitome of intelligence and education. She was made in his mould; to hurt her father was to hurt her. Her mother had made sure she was the calm, poised woman that most saw before she proclaimed her wits and lethal logic but she was her father's daughter, no less.

Stephen drew her into standing, he was taller than she was by far, towering, his head declined so that their gazes were locked. The silence between them spoke more words than mere talk could, but his voice dropped to a low register, gentle and calm. "I could not do anything less than spare him his life. Is there anything else you would wish of me?"

"Nothing, merely you remain true to these promises here." She declared, damning her heart for fluttering like a maiden enraptured.

"Then I ask again, will you marry me Anora?" He whispered.

"I will."

* * *

Anora sat in the silence of her room, the aftermath washing over her of the intense meeting of minds that had occurred not an hour beforehand. She had refused all company, preferring to sit with a glass of sweet wine as she glanced occasionally at the signet on her ring finger of her left hand between the listless burn of the hearth that entertained her overworked thoughts.

She did not love Stephen, but she knew that in time the man would own her heart wholly and easily. It almost scared her that the boy Fergus and she made flounce around as the damsel in distress as they played dashing knights had become the intense man she had met properly with today. Anora found herself shivering with the loss of his presence, wishing to have spent more time in his company.

A knock sounded at the door, three raps sharp and two slower before two sharp again. "You may enter Erlina."

The handmaiden entered noiselessly into the room, placing her evening cup of milky tea on the table at her side where she sat by the fire, flanked by a plate bearing two spiced ginger biscuits. "I thought you may need this my Queen, you usually decline any companionship when upset."

The Queen smiled upwards at the Orlesian maid, the warm comfort of the woman and her distinct caring nature overwhelming her. "I am to be married." She uttered, closing her eyes. It was wonderful news but old trepidation about being disregarded next to a man who captured the hearts and minds of men awoke in her breast.

She lifted her left hand, letting the elf's warm hands bring the foreign object upon her finger up to eye height for examination. "The ring of Teyrna Eleanor," Erlina muttered. "Stephen Cousland is a brave, kind man. He... I hate to sound in adoration of a man but he saved my..."

The handmaiden sighed, shuddering, her accent was more pronounced when she spoke unbidden. "He saved Shianni from those slavers. Her cousins and uncle the same. I cannot thank him enough that he saw the elves of the Alienage protected, paying merchants to bring food and other essentials in to those in need."

Anora knew her handmaiden had tastes for women rather than men, which was why the Orlesian had fled Orlais, her father disgusted that she would spurn an arranged marriage in favour of her own sex. She had found a rare love with another elf here in Denerim. It soothed her heart to hear such news and yet it made Anora fear more that her King would be more beloved by the people than she would ever be. "He did?"

"_Oui_, not from cajoling but merely goodness in his ways. I hope only the best my Queen, you could not ask a better man." Erlina smiled primly, pushing the cup and saucer closer. Anora took the offering, sipping the lukewarm drink, a smile flitting on her mouth at the exact amount of sugar added for her tastes.

"I know, and that scares me Erlina. If Ferelden finds me barren they would dispose of me when he will not." Anora found herself hating how she knew Stephen would not dispose of her, not because it would be terrible if no heir could be conceived but because such loyalty in a man was unknown to her; asked of but still unknown.

"You and I both know you are not barren my Queen, you will be a mother one day." Erlina patted her hand warmly. "I should see to the linens however."

"Yes, see to the linens." The talk had calmed her greatly but Anora remained much more at ease with her own mind for company. The handmaiden seemed to help, with the normalcy of her pottering.

Tomorrow would see the fruits of today come to light though. Tomorrow was the dreaded Landsmeet, Anora steeled herself. Promises in private were well and good, she did not doubt Stephen Cousland's convictions but if they called for him to be crowned on his own how could she and who was she to demand her throne like a petulant child?

Tomorrow would be a start of something; Maker let her be ready for it. It would be a new day and a new Anora Mac Tir, or Cousland as fate may have it.


	2. The Day of the Landsmeet

Author note: Thank you to my reviewers, you're so positive that it makes this author's heart swell with pride. Hopefully I can keep up the quality that inspired such lovely words. And now, for the Landsmeet!

Disclaimer: As always, Dragon Age doesn't belong to me but Gods do I wish it did!

* * *

Stephen paced his room in the morning, his sleep had been fitful at best; trepidation about marriage, facing his bride-to-be's father in a locking of political horns and darkspawn nightmares the main cause. He watched the sun rise over the smoking chimneys of Denerim, the sound and smell of an average day starting with the fishmongers and grocers already awake and hawking wares alongside the alluring fresh bread wafting from the kitchens. He groaned low in his throat, the Warden hunger was infamous and so he took himself down to the pantry, his sword sheathed over sleeping clothes. He knew he was paranoid but when you least suspected danger it would strike.

He arrived back in the bedchamber without incident except the wide-eyes of Nigella and the cook Jan when he arrived armed in their kitchen. Anora's handmaiden had smiled warmly at him as she passed with the Queen's breakfast, slyly if he was any judge.

The Warden took his time dressing in his chain and plate, the familiar mantra of underpadding to be secured followed by leather britches, mail gambeson and finally he allowed one of the squires of Redcliffe, a lad of twelve by the name of Dylan into the room to help him with buckling and linking his plate tight to his torso, over his britches and boots as well as the over gauntlets over the long bronto leather gloves that King Bhelen had gifted him after fighting in the Honour Proving in his name.

The squire was a smart lad, quiet even as he worked, watching for the pinches and more tricky buckles until Stephen dropped a silver in his hand, winking conspiratorially to the boy. Dylan grinned, spitting on the coin before pocketing it. "Help Sten into his armour next, followed by Alistair, then Oghren. Don't let Oghren get out of buckling his chest plate on tight and tell Alistair if his hair is so important he can die with perfect hair if he doesn't wish a helmet." He warned the squire as he carried on with his duties.

"Yes Ser. Is Oghren the dwarf?" He asked.

"Yes, and Sten the kossith that doesn't have horns. Let Leliana, Zevran and the mages get themselves ready, they tend to hide poisons and potions everywhere that won't be healthy for a growing boy." He warned. Dylan nodded.

Once the boy was out of the room, Stephen shut the door slowly, breathing a sigh of relief to be on his own again. Plate required the help of a squire or able hand, Zevran was kind enough while on the road, Sten could tighten the straps how he liked and Wynne had a strange patience for his paranoia. He moved to the weapons stand by the door, picking up the Cousland family blade. He chose to wield it as a permanent reminder that it was a Cousland that was their warrior and protector against the Blight, against the foulness of people like Rendon Howe.

He had nearly had a fit of apoplexy when Sandal had tried to 'enchant' the longsword. Yet the dwarven savant had done as such, a rare rune glowed under the engraved crest under the hilt, along the blade. It caught the sunlight from the window, flashing a magical blue for a moment. Sandal's father, Bodahn Feddic, had identified the rune as enduring sharpness. Indeed, it had been useful, the metal never tarnishing even against the darkspawn spume and the blade itself remaining sharp enough to deliver devastating blows. He picked up his sword belt, buckling it around his middle, the comfortable weight of the sword on his hips anchoring him into the present.

"Excuse me Stephen but could you help an old woman with reaching her cloak?" He sighed, his isolation shattered again. The noble pulled his door open sharply to see Senior Enchanter Wynne in her circle robes, a scarf on and her hands in mittens.

"You say you're not an old woman Wynne, I trust I shan't be getting you a hobble stick anytime soon?" He smiled lopsidedly. He owed the fact he could even smile to the elder mage and her incredible healing talents.

"Just be a dear and reach for me, I swear the servants put it on the top shelf to spite me." Wynne huffed, bustling in her grandmotherly fashion. Stephen reached up onto the highest shelf where the cloaks were put, easily grabbing Wynne's cat shaped brooch to yank it down. "Thank you. It is good having someone tall around. I shall see you later. Best of luck in the Landsmeet." She smiled wistfully, patting him on the shoulder as she clasped her cloak on.

"Are you picking up the staves for the mages today? Should I ask Bodahn and Sandal to help you carry them? Leliana and Oghren could go with you too, just as an escort because of templars." Wynne rolled her eyes, probably because of his slight over-protectiveness. He could not help it, that was the way he was. "It might be best with the Landsmeet."

"I'll take them." She nodded.

* * *

Alistair could not seem to find anyone, well, by anyone he meant anyone he wanted to speak to right now. Wynne, Leliana and Oghren were not anywhere to be found, Sten was meditating before they headed out toward the Landsmeet, Della was scurrying around without her master, Zevran was pensively sharpening his daggers and he was not, he shivered, was not going to try and find Morrigan.

"Are you lost Alistair?" Isolde seemed to have sneaked up on him. The ex-templar nearly jumped out of his skin with a clank of his armour.

"I-Isolde! I didn't hear you!" The Orlesian Arlessa chuckled lightly, the sound gave Alistair the creeps, it was so unnatural. She probably thought he was going to King and was already sucking up. Alistair was so glad Stephen had promised he would not be made King. He thanked the Maker the throne would not be in his not-so-distant future.

"Were you looking for someone?" She smiled, the expression seemed forced, even he could see that.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Stephen went did you?" He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, fidgeting on the spot under the scrutiny of the Arlessa.

"I would check his rooms." She nodded. Alistair nodded swiftly back, getting out of her sight as quickly as possible. Isolde could give him a fear of the Maker even the Grand Cleric could never inspire!

He knocked on the door to the leading Grey Warden's room, waiting. He had stumbled into Stephen's room once in Redcliffe and getting a sword to the neck in warning was more than enough for him to learn the man did not take kindly to unannounced visitors to his room. No answer seemed forthcoming and out of concern, he cracked the door open, peering inside.

"Hello? Are you asleep? Don't draw your sword, it's just Alistair!" He called out, stepping cautiously inside. He found it empty inside the room. Hmm.

Curiosity overtook Alistair as he stood on his own; the room was unbearably ordered, clean to a fault, as if nobody ever slept in it let alone was living in there! He caught a seal on the desk, a stack of piled vellum laid out without a leaf out of place. He burned to just walk out in case the noble returned and drew his sword by accident at seeing just a figure in his room but the vellum looked familiar. It was alluring just to have a quick read and understand what made the man tick; surely, it would not take long?

* * *

Stephen slumped back into the stairs leading up to Brandel Bridge, glaring over at the assassin. It was not his fault the Crow Guild would send Taliesin and a group of his cohorts to try to kill them in broad daylight but did it have to be on route to the bloody Landsmeet? His shoulder ached where he had caught Taliesin hard in the chest on his shield, pushing him backwards into Zevran's awaiting daggers.

Morrigan, Sten and Alistair had worked remarkably well together as they had learned to in the year they'd all fought together and Della loped up to him, tail between her legs. "Come here you sappy beast, help me clean up this mess. All of us in fact." The dog was pleased to help, licking his face clean of a blood splatter. He removed his cloak, wiping his plate off as best possible before handing it over to the Qunari that was grimacing as the mabari licked his brow.

* * *

Anora closed her eyes, hearing the debates through the doors of the Landsmeet Chamber. Her father almost shook the fixtures, it sounded as if it could come to blows any moment. Arl Eamon tried rallying the assorted nobility against him and a murmur of dissent filled the room.

Where was Stephen? How could the man honestly not turn up to such an important thing? It was beyond infuriating! Anora grit her teeth, trying to calm and keep up with the happenings on the other side of the door. "And who would you place upon the throne Eamon? Your own puppet? And lo! The puppeteer himself!"

The room fell silent. Anora quelled the urge to press herself against the door to hear what was going on, it was supernaturally quiet as if each voice were muted. "I prefer not to think of myself as a puppeteer, not after the year I have had."

She shivered, hearing a voice so confident and captivating. She had never been able to trust a man, yet she wanted to, why she wanted to trust Stephen Cousland, Anora could not fathom but she wanted to. She reached out of comfort toward the ring on her finger, finding a strange comfort in the motion. "The Warden who's been the thorn in my side this past year. I knew it would be you."

"I never wanted it to Loghain. Unfortunately, it seems there was no other way." Anora was shocked by the genuine tone his voice had taken, she had just assumed Stephen would be more lenient to her father because of her... yet it was...

Anora burned to be on the other side of the door, to see the expressions of the Banns and Arls that had graced her court for the past five years, their personalities and quirks something that had become a second nature to the Queen. "Yes. It is unfortunate." Even her father seemed regretful in his words. It was... unsettling.

"To business then. We have gathered this Landsmeet to address that our country is with unstable leadership, civil war tearing her apart while the Blight nips at our heels. I do not ask you to trust that this is true, know that it is." Anora's heart seemed to flutter like a bird in a cage at Stephen's voice and she damned it for that. How the way he seemed to command the undivided attentions of each mind in that room was obvious by the lack of murmurs.

"There are enough refugees in my Bannorn to attest to that!" She heard the voice of Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea declare in the silence.

"West Hills was overrun, if this isn't a Blight only the Grey Wardens would be able to quell this uprising!" Arl Whulff shouted, his voice coarse and dark. West Hills had over twenty thousand people living and working in it, and many, Anora knew had not been able to flee. Ser Cauthrien had barely escaped with her life and twenty soldiers from the army that had fought there. There was a chorus of discordant agreement to that notion alongside a few grumbles.

"Ferelden has a strong leader. Ferelden has her Queen!" Her father shouted over the din. The room fell to silence again.

"Yet you take the regency Loghain? Was your daughter not strong enough without you? Or inept to rule without my nephew?" Anora gnashed her teeth at the voice of Arl Eamon. It had been a difficult time, shortly after Cailan's untimely death and her father had strode in, vowing to protect her from the worst of the political maelstrom in that time by taking those lashings himself. In time, she could see that point of view but it was not how it was.

"Too much war occurs because of this. We settle the ruling of Ferelden here and now. Each in this room to swear an oath of fealty to our voted monarch, we cannot let our country to be torn apart. A country cannot stand divided when there is so many that would see us weak." Stephen called the attention of the room again, it sent a chill down her spine to hear him speaking with such a passion and logic; it appealed to her and from the positive murmuring, it appealed to those in the room.

"Would we listen to the murderer of Teyrn Howe?" Anora's throat constricted, her eyes widening. It would not do to run into the Landsmeet Chamber and call the foul of the Regent of Ferelden, even as her Queen. Nevertheless, she could feel palpable waves of hatred even where she stood.

"Teyrn Rendon Howe? The Ferelden that acted like a damned Orlesian? Who took the lands of those he supposedly allied with and slaughtered their household from child to servant? Who took the Arling of Denerim by killing the Kendalls last survivor? I cannot believe the Hero of River Dane could ever ally with such a man." The room had been so quiet for that revelation that the low register of Stephen's voice was still dark and chilling, as low as it probably was to her as everyone else in that room. Anora felt the nonsensical urge to bite her fingernails but quashed it.

"Teyrn Howe was a hero of White River!"

"And so was my father! None of you saw retribution for the fact he slaughter the Couslands? None of you thought that he could take control of Denerim needless? The man had the country by the balls and you too Loghain. The atrocities he committed with the use of blood magic in his dungeons will haunt me relentlessly as well as the battalion of templars that I coerced into action to follow me there. Grand Cleric if you would?"

The Landsmeet Chamber seemed to shift with a rustle of linens and velvet, so quiet were the voices that usually piped up or muttered discontentment. "I can confirm this, the Chantry was lax in defending the people from Maleficar and other dangerous magic."

"The acts done to my son mean he will never walk again, not even with healing magic!" Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak declared in the immediate silence.

The shouting started then, frightened screaming that blood magic could be surrounding and controlling them, harsh hissing of dissent. Anora closed her eyes. There was nothing to quell that. It was fault of each who had allied with the man and the sword of the Chantry for not acting. "If you're so discontent with the leadership of this country then what have you done with our Queen? What vile acts have you done to my daughter?" Her father bellowed over the din. Anora shocked straight, taking a deep breath in.

"I haven't-"

* * *

Stephen felt the shaking in his very core that Rendon Howe had been defended in the Landsmeet whereas the murders of his family had been pushed to the wayside. His mouth was coated with bile. However, he could not falter amongst these lords and ladies. It was not done to show weakness that could be exploited.

The side entrance of the Landsmeet Chamber slammed open with an incredible force after Loghain had bellowed his askance of his daughter. "I haven't-"

"I believe I can answer that question father." Anora stood with an elegant poise and unreadable face near the empty thrones at the end of the Landsmeet Chamber.

Silence descended again like the erratic flight of a bird dipping and soaring in the sky. The blood magic forgotten when faced with their Queen. "Anora-"

"Father you have fallen to the excesses of power not seen for twenty-eight years. It saddens me to say that the Warden standing in front of you saved me from a plot engineered by Rendon Howe to seize the power of the throne for himself that you were too blind to see." Stephen caught the tremble of her left hand and the way it clenched so her thumb could rub on the signet he had given her as a gift of betrothal.

"So even you've been poisoned Anora. I had hoped you wouldn't." Loghain uttered in a low, coarse declaration, icy eyes closing for a moment.

"Stand down Loghain. Admit that what has been done in this past year was a mistake and criminal to the people of Ferelden." Stephen softened his voice, keeping the volume so each of the court could hear. The last time he had stood in this room his palms had itched with sweat as he stood to be recognised as a man in their eyes in front of the King and Queen. Yet both times, he had not shown any of his inner turmoil.

"He enslaved the elves of the Ferelden Alienages!" Stephen did not dare move at the shouted words of his fellow Warden; he had left the stacked vellum on his desk in Arl Eamon's estate. He did not dare bring them into the Landsmeet. He had promised Anora.

"There is no slavery in Ferelden! Let us see those documents." It was as he feared, Stephen remained stock still as the plated figure of Alistair strode past him with a self-satisfied smirk towards Loghain. Why had he told the ex-templar that the best was to tear a man down was to make him a pariah and not to kill him? The man had never listened before and yet now it was as if he had taken them to heart. Fool! Alistair gave the documents to Arl Gallagher Whulff of West Hills, who scanned them, his lip snarling upwards the more he read. Gallagher was the unspoken patriarch of the Landsmeet, even more respected that Eamon but not as usually vocal. He finally put the vellum to the bannister, his eyes closing and a pained expression on his face as he cleared his throat and whet his lips. "We have been blind to the cruelty subjected to Ferelden citizens. Rendon Howe and Loghain Mac Tir have signed the permissions for Tevinter mages to forcibly take and put into bondage the elves of the Highever, Amaranthine, Denerim and Gwaren Alienages. Maker save us all for not stopping this atrocity."

Shouts rang out around them, deafening and full of vitriol to the man standing in the armour ripped from the body of the Orlesian Commander at River Dane. "Waking Sea stands with the Wardens, we need to combat the Blight! Not fight ourselves!" Alfstanna shouted through the noise, banging her fist on the bannister enough to shake it.

"West Hills is with the Wardens. They've sought to keep Ferelden safe!" Gallagher shouted into the noise, his usually quiet respect breaking the most of the noise until it fell to a whisper of decision making amongst the families gathered for their lands.

"Redcliffe supports the Grey Wardens!" Eamon said in the newfound silence to a few shrugs that of nonplussed acknowledgement.

"River Dane stands with the Grey Wardens." Bann Reginalda sniffed with a hoarse voice. Stephen nodded toward the elderly Bann, knowing how difficult it was for her to declare anything like that.

"Dragon's Peak throws their lot in with the Wardens, Maker save us all." Bann Sighard shouted, his voice strained.

"Lothering stands by Loghain. This is not a Blight and we need the might of our only Hero to combat these darkspawn." Stephen put his hand reflexively to his sword, calmed from touching the hilt. Bann Coerlic could rot in the Void, his father had murdered the rebel Queen and he would damn Ferelden too, he had left his Bannorn to the mercies of the darkspawn horde. Of all people, he should have known, yet the man was obviously deaf, dumb and blind to all but himself.

Honnleath, Killarney, Logerswold, Rossleigh, South Reach, White River, Rainesfere, Vintiver, Southmere, Alamar, Brandel's Reach and Winter's Breath each made their declarations until Loghain had only the support of White River, Alamar and Lothering against the rest of the country making an almost unanimous shout for the Grey Wardens. Stephen took in a deep breath.

"You've lost. Preserve what you have left Loghain and-" He was cut off by a snarl.

"Where were all of you during the Occupation? When the Orlesians flattened your fields and raped your wives?" Loghain shouted at the amassed lords and ladies. Many looked ashamed but did not back down from where they stood, others remaining impassive. "There wouldn't be a Ferelden for you all to squabble over without me! And you-" He turned to Stephen, his breath coming out in harsh pants and his pale face reddened. "You would start this war."

"I have done nothing of the sort! Ferelden was already at war, I've been fighting against that!" He shouted, wincing inwardly at the flutter of pain that crossed Anora's face.

Loghain drew his sword. Stephen backed away, instinctively drawing his. "I would never draw my sword in the Landsmeet unless to defend myself Loghain." He warned.

"The Landsmeet will decide unanimously toward the victor of a duel, as it did for Calenhad so it shall for you two." Bann Alfstanna shouted; that seemed to calm the ire of Loghain somewhat. "All opposed?"

There was a silence. "And in favour?" 'Aye' was shouted too much for Stephen's liking. He grit his teeth and pushed his companions back.

"Will you fight me then or have you a champion? Perhaps your puppet?" Loghain sneered. Stephen put his hand out in time before Alistair stomped past him and got himself killed for a fit of childish pique.

"I will fight you, even if I do not wish it." Stephen readied his sword and drew his shield as Loghain did his. He just hoped he could deal with this, a fight in the plush carpets of the Landsmeet Chamber with his future wife watching him draw a sword on her father.

The two circled for some time, neither backing down as they made paths in the carpets and made false starts to the flinching of the other and the gasps of the room - in preparation for a blow. Loghain stuck first, meeting Stephen with his sword angled toward the scarred Warden and the Warden with his sword defensively angled down to deflect the blow rather than power through it.

Loghain back off, as if considering another chance to attack. The ex-noble anticipated the next move as he brought his shield up and swiped at the less protected underarm of his opponent, catching a blow that rang in his ears and landing one that drew first blood. Loghain hissed as the sword was drawn away, coated with a layer of his blood on the impossibly sharp edge.

The Regent kept his right arm angled away ever so slightly as the resumed the circling, neither willing to make a move and falter for a while, the blood seeping through his underpadding and starting to drip down the buckles and straps on the side of his heavy armour. Stephen did not dare break the eye contact with Loghain Mac Tir to assure his daughter that this would not be a fight to the death; yet doing so might make it that way, as Loghain would surely kill him if he thought it best. A year fighting darkspawn and relentlessly dealing with the shit thrown at him would not let him surrender so easily to death. Stephen made the next offensive move, feigning to the left with his sword and catching the Regent under the chin with his shield to make him choke as he staggered back. A moment of pain flashed in his eyes, surprise perhaps.

They continued as if nothing had happened.

* * *

It felt as if her father and her betrothed had circled and cut at each other for over an hour with the insurmountable tension in the air, the tenterhooks Anora hung on aching if even to put herself between them and stop this fight. Both bled, her father from under both arms and a cut over his forehead where he had not blocked quick enough, a bruise covering him from under his chin up to his nose where it was broken and bleeding. Nevertheless, he was tiring, his steps becoming more laboured.

Stephen too was in no good shape, his scarred eye was bruised by a pommel to the brow that had him flat on his back for a moment before he had twisted away from a sword that should have landed through his neck, as was his jaw, the blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. His side had most of his buckles cut so plate hung loose on his chest, the chain distressed from so many blows to it on his same side, the blood coated it thickly yet he did not seem to let the injury mind him.

Her father flung himself forward and Stephen dropped his shield, catching him with an armoured arm around the neck until he had pushed her father to the floor, knees digging into his back and pulling his face up to look out at the fatigued lords and ladies that had watched with a quiet rapture.

The thump of feet and hands on the floor and bannister was deafening as the two men stayed in the locked position on the floor, both breathing heavily from the long bout. It was as if they were no more evolved than the tribesmen they descended from, primal lust for blood by baiting them. "I yield!" Her father suddenly shouted as the din reached a head. Stephen let him go, wiping the blood from his mouth where it had run.

"Accepted." Anora sighed with relief, every bit of tension flooding out of her in that moment as Stephen stood victorious. He put his hand out so her father could stand. He looked warily at it then took in, shaking in for a moment.

"I haven't seen strength like that since Maric died... I know the kingdom will be in safe hands... if you so..."

"I will not kill you." Stephen shouted the words despite his heavy breathing and dishevelled appearance, sweat and blood sticking his wavy brown hair to his head and armour starting to fall apart at the side.

"What!" Anora railed against the voice that came from behind her, noticing the man that had nearly destroyed her father with the slavery documents taking a less passive role for what she had seen of him. "You would spare the life of a murderer and a slaver? A man who sent assassins after us and a blood mage after Arl Eamon? He abandoned our King and the Wardens at Ostagar! Who is he to be spared?" Alistair shouted, if Anora had not seen it she would never believed the way he had stamped one foot. It was as if he were nothing more than a petulant child was.

"I will not kill Loghain. As he stated, without his actions we would not have a Ferelden to defend, we would have died young or be fighting the Orlesians still. Instead, I propose an exile from the country. On Brandel's Reach there is a lighthouse which needs constant tamping with oil and watching so ships have warning of the rocks that could kill one as they took the life of King Maric. I propose Loghain becomes the lighthouse keeper, allowed onto mainland Ferelden once a year for two weeks to see Anora. What fairer and long lasting punishment would you give Alistair? The man was best friends with King Maric!" Anora's breath stilled at the impassioned debate from Stephen, despite the cruelty it would entail for her father in exchange for his prolonged life.

"I never thought I would ask for it but if it sees the death of this man I will take the crown!" Alistair roared.

Anora's heart pound in her chest looking between the two men that had fought and the two men still fighting, one of which would be her husband. "For the past year every choice made by the Grey Wardens was done by myself, not you the more senior, supposed son of Maric and more knowledgeable about the Wardens. No, it was I, the green recruit that had witnessed the murders of his family not a month before. I would sooner put my dog on the throne than you; Ferelden needs a strong leader, not a sheep without backbone for anything but imagined revenge!"

Alistair reeled away as if hurt. "Alistair is the son of Maric and a servant in Redcliffe!" Arl Eamon shouted but it paled in passion compared to Stephen.

"And your servants are all elven except for Isolde's handmaiden! Isolde never knew Alistair was not your own bastard so you sent him away at your Orlesian wife's wishes into the Chantry. At best, he is half-elven and at worst your own Eamon. Neither of which Ferelden would stand on the throne. So tell the people of the Landsmeet what drug the Chantry gives their templars to keep them in control and keen to fight the dangers of magic, the same drug you could use to control your puppet King. Loghain was right and wrong, Alistair would be a puppet but not mine, he would be yours!" The room was quiet in the aftermath of the information, letting it sink in. Anora had heard Arl Eamon's rallying for them to stand for the son of Maric to be crowned as rightful heir, the agreement that had crept in before her father had torn him down. If anything, Stephen had successfully shamed him for life in one declaration to the Landsmeet, for those reasons Anora could have kissed him in front of all these people present.

"Alistair will not take the throne, yet Ferelden needs a strong leader. Lords and Ladies of this country, I ask each of you here who would see Anora stay upon the throne with a simple raising of your hands," Anora was not pleased that roughly half of those present would dare raise their hands. "And who would see the blood of Calenhad sit upon your throne after proving their mettle?" The hands that had not been raised shot up alongside some that had stayed up for her own continued reign.

"Then I ask of this Landsmeet a compromise, the Rite of Succession initiated so that the Cousland family as direct descendants of Calenhad take the throne. As the sole heir, I would have to take the burden of the throne but I will not do so alone. I declare that I would take Anora Mac Tir as my wife, my Queen and equal on the throne. Would there be a war made from this proposal?" Heads were shook mutely and Anora filled with elation that there was a man she could trust even if it was on his word if not in the bedroom, that was yet to be seen. She stood forward, clasping her father's arm and standing beside Stephen as the three of them made their way to the throne dais. He father staggered, still out of breath and Anora was shocked to see that Stephen was flushed with bruising on his neck; she had not thought her father had throttled him so hard. It amazed her that he could allow the life of the same man.

"But this man would see Ferelden die! How can you have a King or Queen that would let Loghain live!" Alistair shouted, hoarse and bitter. Stephen straightened out at her side.

"You want his death? You ask it of the King of Ferelden?" He spoke, loudly but not with any heat.

"I do!" Alistair tightened his fists.

"Then I hereby conscript Loghain Mac Tir into the Grey Wardens, in the order he will find his salvation fighting or dying against the darkspawn and in doing so will once again be defending Ferelden."

"By doing that you cheapen us all! I will not stand by that man! I will not! He killed our brothers!" Alistair nearly screamed, his foot stamped again.

Anora grit her teeth, it was not a secret to her that becoming a Grey Warden could kill a man, she had read the same books as Cailan had that made him idolise the Wardens and gleaned that their Joining was often fatal. She hated that Stephen had tried to placate Alistair by even mentioning that but he would need Wardens, there had to be something to becoming one that saved a nation during a Blight. There just had to be. If her father survived, there was nothing Alistair could do about it.

"The Grey Wardens conscript noble and commoner alike, criminal and priest, mage and warrior or rogue. There is nobody that could cheapen the Grey Wardens." A man Anora had not notice before piped up, a heavy Orlesian accent but the heavyset looks of a Ferelden. Alistair glared heatedly at him. "Why waste a life? If he dies then you have your revenge and as he lives, he will provide a useful mind and sword-arm against the darkspawn. Call it ironic punishment Alistair."

Stephen nodded to the man. "Senior Warden Riordan of Jader. I believe you would know would you not?"

This Riordan nodded. "Let him go through the Joining. I will conscript him myself if Alistair will not believe my King."

"That's not necessary. I wipe my hands of you, of all of you!" Alistair shouted, pointedly looking toward Stephen and Eamon most of all.

"That is not enough Alistair. We need to ask you on the off chance you are the natural, wholly human son of Maric, even as an unacknowledged bastard that you rescind all rights to the throne." Anora said as he turned away.

"I don't want it, I never wanted it and it seems even if I do want it I'm not good enough. Have your stupid throne for all I care." He threw his hands up as he walked off.

"Would any here start war to see Alistair on the throne?" Stephen asked of the Landsmeet. Fervent shakes of head, too engrossed in the drama in the centre of the room to speak answered the question. "Then you are hereby banished from Ferelden Alistair. May the Maker have mercy on your soul."

* * *

Stephen blocked out the most of the finishing of the Landsmeet as he watched Alistair look at him for a last time before he slipped out of the door. Alistair had been an annoying little twit, coddled by most and a man-child to be sure, but he was that special kind of person that grafted themselves as a brother to him. Many hurtful things had been spewed but he was only sorry that Alistair had not been able to see what was being done.

He bowed alongside Anora and Loghain as the Landsmeet closed, his mouth still tasting of blood and ashes. He looked toward Morrigan, Sten and Zevran; all three did not seem at a loss over Alistair, all three looking toward him with new respect if he were perfectly honest.

Leliana and Wynne would hate him, and Oghren might just not care. Today had been a day and a half. Today, Stephen Cousland had become King.


	3. Aftermath

Author Note: Just Enjoy! Thank you too all those who have put the story on favourite or follow and especially to reviewers! And wow - some people have followed or favourited me as an author for this story! I'm touched, absolutely thrilled. Do pop me a PM or review, either way with comments on the chapters or when the story is done and dusted!

Disclaimer: Until I win the lottery, Dragon Age does not belong to me... pooh!

* * *

Stephen kept his mouth firmly shut as he and his future Queen exited the Landsmeet Chamber at the end of the day, thoroughly exhausted and his blood that had been shed fighting against Loghain congealed and sticky on his face and side, his bruises throbbing painfully.

"Tis utterly amusing is it not? For so long it was the bumbling templar fool everyone spoke of as King in our limited social group when what should happen but the more apt blue-blooded creature slips onto the bejewelled seat." Morrigan laughed lowly in her throat, haughty tones bubbling through her lips.

"At least our King knows which foot belongs in which boot, yes?" Zevran chuckled.

Stephen looked mutely on as the witch and the elven assassin traded barbs over Alistair, cackling down the hall, sometimes at innuendoes Zevran had made toward him that were taken with incredibly naivety and some of the more scathing comments she and he had traded over the past year. Neither was unhappy about the events of the day, yet Stephen felt weighed down already by the phantom crown heavy on his head. "Kadan, we must speak." The Cousland King looked glumly upwards at the only friend, for lack of a better word, that was taller than he was. There was always a strange disconcerting feeling looking toward purple eyes that had evolved blacks rather than whites.

"Yes Sten?" He croaked, finding his voice strained because of the bruising on his throat and the blood that clotted in his mouth.

"I wished to say that you have gone up in my estimations since we first met. You will recall that I likened you to-"

"Dathrasi, which I later found out was a like a nug." Stephen grimaced with a brief flask of fresh pain on his face, remembering the first time he'd come face to face with the rat-pigs after Oghren clapped him hard on the back coming out of the merchant district of Orzammar - he had been so tired that he fell face first into the Nug Wrangler's pen. Loghain had done a number on him though, his face and throat hurt more from moving the muscles there. Maybe he would not say anything to Wynne so she could heal this then run like the Void to avoid her stave of swift punishment.

"I remember Kadan. You are Arishok material and worthy of leading and my following you. I have misjudged you as you cut... cut the wheat from the chaff with a careful eye for never wasting resources. If you embraced the Qun your life would not change, of that I am sure." Sten nodded solemnly, the scar that crossed his jawline from sharlock claws crinkling as he tried to smile.

"Thank you Sten." Stephen nodded back. From the Qunari, it was a high compliment, especially considering he had tried to use a human colloquialism.

"I should sharpen Asala, the crow assassins scratched her. I shall see you soon Kadan." The Qunari's lips quirked wryly as he walked away. Stephen furrowed his brow, trying to ignore the pain that blossomed over his eye; he would never understand that man.

"Will we get this joining the Grey Wardens over with then? I relish the opportunity." Loghain commented sarcastically once he was alone with Stephen and Anora.

"As much as I relished it. We start our careers as Wardens on the same foot. I should... apologise by the way. I hit your jaw rather hard." He looked towards Anora, sighing. He had not planned that fight but by the Maker, he was glad to have been wearing his armour, even if it would mean going to Wade's Emporium in the hopes that the master smith could mend it.

"I did throttle you." Loghain shrugged, glancing toward Anora too.

"I shall leave you both to speak. I will see you tomorrow my betrothed." Anora leaned upwards on the balls of her feet, kissing him with the gentlest of touches on his unscarred cheek. It was nothing as passionate as the kiss they had shared after he had proposed that had left his lips tingling for hours but it was just as meaningful. He flushed warmly, trying to avoid Loghain's amused eyebrow that was raised. "If we could speak later father... if you survive." Anora tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially so neither of the men thought to raise comment on that.

"You'll always be my little girl Anora. I... I hope we will have that talk." Loghain watched her walk away with painful slowness in silence next to Stephen before he cleared his throat. "So should I call you my King or son now?"

"Stephen would suffice." He felt all his blood freeze, the awkwardness of the situation overwhelming. "Do I have to call you Father?"

"If you can stand my presence enough to talk to me whatever you wish, bastard might be more apt." Loghain shrugged with a wince. "Those were some rather good jabs. I could... train with you. Polish them up to a point that you wouldn't have to dance like a pansy when fighting."

"I didn't want to kill you. You'll find out soon enough how my true enemies find me in battle." Stephen remarked darkly. Loghain snorted dryly, a familiar curl to his lips that Stephen had seen in the mirror before when he found something amusing in an ironic way. Why he thought that this might be the strangest start to a relationship it was not even that, they had started contemporary nobles, then adversaries. Now they would be family by marriage and somewhat forced allies. Nevertheless, it was the start of what might be called friendship.

"I shall watch with bated breath then. What did the Qunari say?" It seemed had not been eavesdropped on then.

"He called me his treasured friend, likened me to a true leader of men and reminisced about the time I mistook being called a scurrying rat-pig as a compliment. My Qunlat has improved no end, that I can tell you now!" He idly scratched his jaw, feeling the raised swelling of the bruise under his fingers with a moue of distaste. Loghain snorted a short laugh.

"I wonder what I'll be called then. I trust Qalaba still means stupid cow, I probably deserve no less." He looked toward Stephen sideways. "I can't hate you as much as I thought I might. There was some strange connection made as you spoke to the Landsmeet that reminded me of Maric more than I have seen in five years. I... I know that things will be fine even if I should die. It's the oddest experience I've ever yet to have."

"I was told and aware you were rather taciturn." Stephen commented.

"I find myself having to talk to you."

"But so civilly?"

"I could threaten to swap your balls with your eyes should you even glance lustfully at a woman other than Anora if that helps, even in death I will haunt you with that threat."

"Threat understood and taken seriously Ser," Stephen nodded, breathing sharply in with a hiss between his teeth as his ribs ached. "I might seek out some medical attention however, I have a healer in my group of companions but a poultice and a slab of meat on these bruises might suffice better. Care to join me Loghain?"

The Regent recently brought low smiled for the briefest of seconds. "I could."

"Ah gentlemen!" Stephen turned his head to see Riordan approach, the Orlesian Warden swaggering in his unique style that belied an old injury that had led to habit, his face rakishly stubble dusted and hair long even if his features were more Ferelden that Orlesian bred. It could have been because the man was Ferelden by birth, as Leliana claimed to be also, but there was a certain lack of Orlesian about him excepting his thick, lisping accent.

"The man that helped conscript me into the Grey Wardens. How wonderful, if you'll excuse my distaste." Loghain grimaced, completely transparent in his hatred.

"It is expected of course. I thought to conduct our Joining very soon. I am very sorry for my absence Stephen but I have been... recruiting as it were. I happened upon a very interesting apostate and a man who claims knowledge of an ancient Warden Fortress." The Orlesian smiled gaily, reaching inside his fur-lined leather jacket to produce a rolled length of vellum. Stephen took it carefully, eyeing the lovingly etched features of a mountain he had known upon maps since he was old enough to read.

"Austurian's Mount? That mountain has always been said to be haunted." Stephen whetted his lips, passing it over for Loghain's critical eyes to scan, but he was sure of his identification of it. He remembered with a pang of regret the summer days he had spent in Amaranthine with Nathaniel and Thomas Howe, having listened to the scary story of Austurian's Mount from Rendon Howe before bed and determined to be the boys that would conquer the foreboding mountain among the tales of witches haunting the Blackmarsh and dragons made of pure lightning and light. Those days almost seemed like part of another life and Stephen unwittingly frowned that such days had to end.

"If memory serves me correctly, it was the location of a Grey Warden fortress about two hundred years ago and the site of the last battle of the fruitless rebellion against King Arland Theirin." Loghain finally declared. He went to pass the map back but Stephen put his hand out, Loghain could keep it for now if he wished it.

"Keep a hold of that for the moment at the least. I have some questions." He turned back to Riordan of Jader, a measured smile on his lips. "So we should scout out the fortress on this map, if it is haunted, exorcise the demons and ghosts and then get back to our quest of defeating the Blight? This could be wholly pointless, the building crumbled to ruins and what might have been salvaged lost to nature. However, we must gather the armies to fight. The horde has been pushing through West Hills at a slower pace than previously thought but it will head toward Redcliffe soon enough."

"That was my reasoning. We have time to check in the least before we march toward our deaths." Riordan nodded, as if telling himself that too. "Griselda, you can come out now."

Both Stephen and Loghain poised themselves to see whomever Riordan spoke of, most likely the aforementioned interesting apostate when the woman seemingly slipped from the stones themselves as a wisp of smoke that built itself up as a tall woman, her honeyed blonde hair short to her scalp except for a braid behind her ear to her neck ended with a red bead, skin a caramel similar to Zevran's Antivan tan and everything about the mage angular and stern. "Griselda Caron. But if you must I can be called Selly." Her accent was much thicker than Riordan's, as if she had only learned the King's Tongue recently. Loghain did not hide his disgust any more than he had toward Riordan, his upper lip curling.

"I suppose you can call me Stephen then whilst out of the public eye." He sighed, extending a hand toward the strange woman, wearing the oddest grey knitted woollen robes that looked older than she did. She took his hand, a very strong handshake and her dark blue eyes not once blinking. Her rings on her fingers clinked on his gauntlet enough that Stephen looked down to see each gem was sharp and pointed, containing the faintest of glows. "I take it you're a blood mage then Selly?"

Griselda did not blink her face impassive. "No. I think such ephemeral power is rather pointless," Her eyes flicked momentarily toward her rings. "I have however been in one too many bar fights and find some enchanted rings leaving permanent scars remind the thugs of who they should not cross." She tilted her head upwards, defiantly jutting her chin out as if to provoke him to test this out.

"Enchanted?" Stephen blinked, neither his smile never dropping nor his grip on the apostate's hand.

"Fire runes, I'm nothing but caring with cauterising wounds." Griselda smirked. "Anything else you might wish to know about me?"

"How about what's an Orlesian apostate doing in Ferelden?" Loghain asked pointedly before Stephen could utter the same sentence.

"I was born in Ferelden, my parents thought when I manifested my powers that the best place for me was to rot on the streets of Orlais. I enchanted hundreds in the courts and dances of the Empire with my unique talents until the templars came for me. You could say the Empress herself decided that I was too special to end up in the circle, sending one of her personal bards to stall the templars as I fled. The rest, as they say, is history. I have done some work with the underground mages here in Denerim and managed to keep myself unseen. Until of course, Riordan found me two years ago." She did not hide the smile toward the archer, her plump lips curling in the slightest.

"Two years ago?" Stephen raised a painful eyebrow at the Warden of Jader.

"She never volunteered two years ago." Riordan shrugged. He was good at shrugging; it seemed to be an expression in itself for him.

"Do you still hold any loyalties towards Orlais?" Loghain growled.

"Why should I? My loyalty is to myself, no other. I cannot classify myself as Ferelden, Orlesian nor any other nationality. Perhaps in time I may find the Grey Wardens something I can have a loyalty to but until then I have myself to worry about, sometimes I may take an interest in the welfare of others but that is nothing more than simple care for fellow beings. The world hates what I am no matter what I do, so I really do not care." She fixed Loghain with a smile that was supposed to be bright but on her haughty features, it was more menacing and forced.

"Then we have a few Joinings. Should we recruit more people or what? Four Grey Wardens is nothing compared to the Anderfels with over a thousand." Stephen hmm'ed to himself, he took in a deep breath. "So what magic can you do Selly that would be helpful to our cause?"

The apostate smiled an unnatural curve to her lips before she glanced over at Riordan. Riordan nodded back at her. Griselda put her hands out and her fingers went rigid, clenching into claw shapes in front over her. Foreign, nonsensical words formed mutely on her lips and Stephen suddenly felt incorporeal as the world turned black.

The feeling was very strange, coming back into being behind Riordan, his whole self reformed in the armour he had stood in moments ago and everything seemingly intact. Except, the pain that had lanced his face and throat was gone, replaced by the alien but not unfamiliar healing sensation of ice over a burn. He brought his gauntlet to his face, amazed at the strangeness of the magic and look of smug pride on both Orlesian's faces. "Sufficient Your Majesty? I can do that to anyone or anything to a distance of half a mile should needs be. Sometimes I do not put them back the way they started."

Loghain's mouth was slack with shock, his icy eyes questioning toward both the Orlesians with a painful amount of unspoken vitriol considering that they had been sworn enemies not an hour ago. "Anything else other than vanishing tricks? Something a bit more battle minded?"

"Take me on this sojourn to Austurian's Mount and you can see. I heard the story first hand from the sap who tried to get up there before. Walking skeletons and demons alike that wander the lands around as well as the walls inside. I almost feel happy about the horrific scar over his arms."

"Selly that was unfair." Riordan tutted.

"He elbowed me in the stomach in his haste to get on that ferry! I feel obligated to delight in his foolishness in attempting a haunted keep!" She pouted toward the archer and she grinned. Stephen cleared his throat.

"Your other magical talents?"

"Spirit magic is a forte as well as the odd healing spell. I can multi-task my magic too, as you saw my King. I suppose we must go to this Joining then?" She blinked; Stephen could have sworn it was the first time since he had met the odd apostate.

"Yes. Let's get this over with then." Loghain grumbled.

"Would you like healing Loghain? In Orlais, you understand what a mythical figure you are? The barbarian that took down my father?" She smiled again, levelling her unblinking gaze with the disposed Regent.

"I thought you were Ferelden born?"

"Born in Ferelden to Commander Caron, I think his armour suits you much more than it ever did him though." She swept off after that, not in her incorporeal way but with an oddly superior sway to her steps.

"I already hate the Grey Wardens." Loghain commented.

"You and I both." Stephen remarked dryly.

* * *

The Joining was conducted with tension thick in the air. Between Griselda and Loghain, between Riordan and Loghain, between Stephen and Loghain. Between everyone and Loghain. For various reasons the ex-Regent assumed as he looked about the room. The smirking apostate looking with a certain fear at the concoction the other Orlesian was mixing up. Loghain rolled his eyes.

"And so we come to the Joining, Maker protect you both. The Grey Wardens stand diminished in the face of the Fifth Blight on Thedas, Archdemon Urthemiel has arisen and started to lead the darkspawn against the surface world. I ask each recruit here to submit to the taint for Greater Good, to become Grey Wardens or die. This is not an easy life but this is a duty that cannot be forsworn, simply know that should you fall today... we too shall join you." Stephen looked morosely as he was passed the silver chalice.

The King cleared his throat as the Orlesian Warden fell to silence. "The world is a cruel place. Should you not die now you will fall to the darkspawn in the next thirty years without fail. If you survive that long, nothing will await you but the cold of the Deep Roads, fighting until consumed by the monsters. There will be nightmares, not just of your experiences but also from tapping into the darkspawn hive-mind. There will be hunger like none you have known before and there are more, gruesome costs we take to become as we are. This is no salvation, this is a life sentence." The King spoke in a low register, his green eyes dark and hooded as he gazed at the red liquid of the chalice. He passed it to Griselda first.

"I have to drink this... this is the taint no?" The mage with strange talents questioned.

"Darkspawn blood Selly." Riordan whispered lowly.

"But of course. Bon appétit gentlemen." She raised it gaily before taking a swallow, grimacing as she removed it from her lips. The mage dribbled a drop down her chin, pursing her mouth closed as she made coughs that spluttered from her nose like harsh, bubbling snorts. Riordan grabbed the chalice from her hands before the strange apostate fell to the floor, convulsing and hissing as if a demon had taken her soul.

Riordan turned to him, passing the chalice. "You must drink." The Orlesian said solemnly, looking fondly at the mage that was starting to still on the carpets.

Loghain sat down and took the chalice in his hands, feeling the unholy cold of the blood inside through his gauntlets and the chalice. He grit his teeth and swallowed until it was empty, regretting the vile flavour of the blackened liquid and the instantaneous reaction to heave his stomach contents. He steeled himself, wondering why the Orlesian apostate had made such a song and dance of it when it chilled though his veins like a wave.

He could hear and feel the tremors shaking him as if he was separate from his own body, his head was splitting and he slumped backwards, his vision blackening. Loghain sent one of the few genuine prayers to the Maker then that he would be able to have that conversation with his daughter. The only others he could remember in that instant had been when Rowan and Celia had died and when Maric had been lost at sea. He cursed that, if he died now... perhaps he had not been a good person or a devout Andrastian but he tried to do what he thought was right by the majority. That had to count for something.

* * *

Stephen left Griselda and Loghain to the cares of the servants of the palace and Riordan to answer what questions they had when the two successful recruits awoke. A frown pulled at his face, it was for the best of Ferelden. Not to gain power himself, not to hurt Alistair. It was to keep Ferelden safe, make her great. It was also no secret that a wife such as Anora would never be any trouble. She was beautiful, strong and enigmatically intelligent. He strode to the rooms he could hear Oghren and Zevran laughing in, hoping he would not have to gather everyone else or at least know where they all where.

"Hello girl. Did Papa do well today?" He greeted his twenty-stone bed partner as she waggled up to him, stubby tail going nine to the dozen. "Who's a good girl?"

Della lapped up the attention, giving his hands a thorough coating of doggy saliva. "Young man, we need to talk." Stephen looked up to see Wynne standing in the doorframe, a scowl etching her usually caring features. He gulped. It was a good thing Griselda had healed him.

"You wished to speak to me Wynne?" He said, unperturbed by her icy tone or stiff, straight-backed posture.

"What did you do to Alistair? Zevran... Sten... Even Morrigan has said that he's gone!" She hissed angrily, her lower jaw trembling.

"He was..." Stephen sighed, hating how the elderly mage could make him feel as if he were a mere lad again.

"And if that wasn't bad enough but you conscripted Loghain Mac Tir into the Grey Wardens!" Wynne lowered her voice. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"I should not speak to your King like that schoolmarm, it can be... treasonous." Morrigan sniffled from her perch on an armchair. Wynne's eyes widened comically and she clenched her teeth.

"Then I am of no place to question my King." She muttered darkly, barely containing her fury at Stephen as she bustled past. "Your mage staves are on Bodahn's cart by the way my King."

"Thank you Wynne." Stephen sighed, trying to ignore her venomous stalking down the hallway. Hopefully, she would come back, if not the templars would have her. That would not do. "Anybody else wish to lash me out then do so now, false friends can go."

"I!" Leliana opened her mouth, her dark brows furrowing angrily as she stepped up to him, plump lips crossly pursed. "He was your friend and you took his destiny and denied him his vengeance! I cannot help but think that it is good you spared a man his death but you have... you are no better than Loghain." If the bard could have, she might have spat at him and she sighed. "I have said my piece and I make my peace with you decisions. I follow still." She turned her head away, as if cursing herself for it.

"Oghren?" Stephen managed through gritted teeth. Here he had thought these people might have liked him slightly more than they might have liked Alistair, the words he had spat during the Landsmeet did not seem so hateful now as they felt truer.

"Don't give a rat's arse." The drunken dwarf shrugged. He looked blearily upwards. "Still, think it might 'a been harsh ta say those things. Coulda been a bit more gentle with the pike-twirler." Stephen nodded, that much was true. Oghren was a bit of a mentor to him, teaching him the dwarven berserker techniques for battle. The problem was, he did not wish to kill Loghain and had to revert to his former fighting style, battling the beast within that wished out. When he spoke - he could not help the words he said. They were from his primal gut, even accepting the yielding of his future father-by-law had been difficult, more tiring than ending him could have been.

The King looked toward where Wynne had stormed off. "Do you think she'll be back?"

"What should it matter? We are off to war, not afternoon luncheon with delegates!" Morrigan scoffed.

"Exactly, we need healing magic dammit! Will you finally still that venomous tongue of yours harpy and think logically for five moments?" He snapped. Morrigan narrowed her golden eyes at him, growling low in her throat.

Silence covered them; Della scratched a paw on his knee, whining. Stephen knelt down and rubbed behind her ears. "I know girl. Thank you." He sighed; gladdened by the only being that could cheer him every time.

"My King." Stephen took in a deep breath, his day felt so long, so tiring. It had just gotten worse. He pat Della on the head as he stood up again, turning to face the two-faced Arl Eamon. "I..."

"Arl Eamon. If you think you have something to say I have not thought of or not been told then you have an expansive imagination." He stated. The Arl snorted slowly from his nose impotently trying to be rid of his own anger from within.

"Know that should you require any aide... my King, that the Guerrin family is more than able to assist you in both trying and pleasant times." He said cordially, turning without another word spoken. Toadying to him already, Stephen could never have guessed. Not that Eamon would like him by any stretch of the most expansive imagination but he would want the powers and luxuries allowed to one in the position he had been born for. One would think he would be more thankful of Loghain for helping to drive the Orlesians out so he could take his Arling. Then again, he married Isolde LaCroix, the daughter of those that usurped Redcliffe so perhaps not.

* * *

Stephen already felt sick to death of the non-existent crown on his head. The couriers had been sent to the mages of Kinloch Hold and Jainen to gather their mages. The dwarves were summoned and the Dalish through a mind link between Morrigan and Keeper Lanaya in the Fade. It would have been ridiculous to try to hunt them down again. They would amass at Redcliffe, the immediate area the darkspawn should attack after West Hills.

He fell into the chair by the fire, hungry and miserable. He knew what he had signed up for; he knew the weight of responsibility since he was young. However, nobody said that it would suddenly weigh upon you, the cost of it on your soul. The door opened softly and Anora padded into the room, her slim form lit a glowing orange by the flickering, spitting hearth, his mabari dozing on the rug after a long day at his heel. Stephen managed to straighten in the chair as she softly sat in the chair beside him.

"I often find sitting here soothing; it appears we have some things in common." She smiled weakly, her eyes glassy as she looked at him.

"Did you speak to your father?" He croaked his voice hoarse from shouting across the courtyards and arranging matters of military. No wonder Loghain sounded like a man that puffed the chimney of a forge. Anora smiled.

"I did. I think he's rather looking forward to fighting on the forefront again, I suppose you can never tell him to stop." She shrugged, chuckling to herself with a happy twinkle in her blue eyes. "But it is done now."

"It is. I'm... I'm very sorry Anora. I should have thought of the possibility beforehand and had gotten your opinion." He admitted, feeling ashamed for already having ignored the opinion of his future wife.

"When you think on your feet I can't expect forewarning." She closed her eyes. Stephen watched as her handmaiden came into the room, two glasses of wine on a tray that she wordlessly placed on the table between the chairs they sat on. Erlina left as quietly as she had arrived, closing the door to the sitting room of the royal couple.

"Another habit of yours I take it my Queen?" Stephen smiled languidly, relishing the idea of the glass let alone drinking it. Wine had always been something he enjoyed in a life that seemed so long ago.

"Of course, sweet, dark, strong and from Ferelden soil." Anora smirked over the rim of the belled glass, sipping daintily of the alcohol. Stephen picked the glass up by the stem and took a sip. Not bad actually.

"It reminds me of much better times." He admitted as he sipped again, staring into the flames of the fire. "Did you speak of much with your father?"

"We spoke of my marriage, he told me if we have a son that I should under no circumstances name it after him and-" Anora laughed, it was a joyous sound in the crackling of the logs upon the fire. "You look as if you met a ghost."

"Children." Stephen gulped.

"We will have to secure an heir for the country. Building paradise and cultivating it will be for naught if it were torn apart by war for succession." Anora replied smartly. Stephen whet his mouth with the wine in a forceful gulp.

"Grey Wardens as I understand it have a lessened fertility." He admitted, he expected venomous growling, he expected screaming. What Stephen did not expect was Anora's complete silence. "Anora?"

"They will blame me again," She whispered finally. Her tone changed, hissed through her teeth. "You could have mentioned it before."

"I had completely forgotten. Nevertheless, it isn't infertility, merely lessened. An heir will still be possible." Stephen quickly amended. Anora sighed heavily.

"Then by the Maker's favour I hope for the both of us we have luck on our side." She smiled weakly at him again and Stephen softened, he lifted of the chair and walked over to her, kneeling at her feet and taking her hands in his.

"I will do anything to ensure your happiness and wellbeing my Queen. Your askance is my command. I will find a way to ensure an heir to our throne." He solemnly promised. Anora brightened, her eyes misting.

"Thank you." She kissed him softly on the lips, the flavour of the wine stronger on hers than his. Stephen broke away first.

"I have to go on a mission starting tomorrow as I wait for my armies to arrive. I should not be gone long; I trust you will be fine on your own?" He asked.

In that brief static moment of time, Anora sniffled, gritting her teeth. "I can look after myself my King. I'm not defenceless."

"I know. I was asking as a courtesy, the armies will muster at Redcliffe. After my mission, I will return but I must ask of you a question. Will you lead the Bannorn armies toward there, stand at my side as the warrior I know you to be?" He caught the curl on the edge of her lips on one side and she nodded mutely. "Good. We will stand united."

Stephen felt a head nuzzling under his arm and looked down to see a mabari that had stood by his side since she was a pup. "Hello there, what's your name?" Anora cooed, reaching downwards and rubbing her fingers into the scarred muzzle of the hound. Della looked as a mabari in love, her tongue lolling out and head angled upwards as she allowed pale, tapered fingers to tickle the soft fur beneath her neck.

"Della. I'm glad she likes you." Stephen smiled indulgently, allowing the mabari to get closer to his Queen.

"She's wonderful. Powerful flanks, strong build and those eyes!" Anora gleefully stroked the hound as she lavished the attentions, tail almost invisible for how much it wagged. Stephen sat back down at watched the two women in his life were acquainted with each other.


	4. Slowly Warming

Author note: Yes, bad author is bad for not updating in a while. You all forgive me right?

In fact - tell me if you do or don't in your review!

Oh and news for all my readers (this will be repeated in a lot of updates for multiple stories) - I am he writer and editor of the Dragon Age section of the app game QuizUp by Plain Vanilla Games. *screams like a fangirl until eardrums explode* Hopefully we should get the section up soon!

Disclaimer: None of this is my intellectual property but guess what, no monies were received nor expected for this work of fiction so :P

* * *

Stephen sat at the end of the dock, watching the lazy ships on the horizon. It was a neap tide, far back so the pebbles, jetties and even the sand was edged with a green algae and seaweed boarder before the seafoam slid languidly over it. It was peaceful.

But the trading ship that was headed to the Free Marches had left when the tide had still been high, late at night by the light of the Two Point Lighthouse, named after the first usurper of Highever who commissioned it, though his surname had been Du Pont, a bit of mockery of the Orlesian language there but quite mild. In the northern Teyrnir there had been a lovely garden square in the centre of the city named after the lands called Two Point Square and that too was a beauty. The Du Pont patriarch had been burned there. The ship held the missives to send to Ostwick and Ansburg, the Warden fortresses of their neighbours across the Waking Sea to send Wardens, for Maker's sake to send Wardens. The messengers had been sent to the dwarves, mages and Dalish to send their troops, it was in their hands now if Ferelden was to weather the Blight as the new monarch doubted that other countries were so keen on helping them when they had send the singular Riordan from Orlais and no other.

Della was harassing the gulls that took advantage of the low tide, picking at the sea creatures not clever enough to go with the currents, the crabs, small fishes and limpets exposed in their rock pools. His Mabari seemed to be enjoying it too much for him to think of calling her back in and giving her the dreaded B-A-T-H that she'd need after the morning of wallowing in the sewage and that spilled into the seas from the cloaca that was the River Drakon after having made it's meandering route through the city.

"If you insist on making assassination attempts so easy my newly appointed King, you'll leave no fun to the hunt." Stephen raised a faintly amused eyebrow at Zevran's comment, the tawny skinned Antivan elf sauntering then flipping neatly to sit beside him.

"Don't remind me Zev, I often think on how easily I'll get that final stab in the back these days. We're leaving after lunch, we should have sufficiently packed enough to last us a good month of mountaineering." Stephen put two fingers in his mouth, whistling loudly. Della stopped in mid run, skidding a sandy trail behind her. The hound looked toward him, ears perked up. "Here girl!"

"I will never understand the saying that a Ferelden cannot sleep without a mabari in his bed. Yours smells truly ripe most days," Zevran scowled toward the Mabari that was making it's way, bedraggled with salt water and sand in wet tendrils down her flanks. "Although that could be a mention toward your Ferelden women, yes?" He threw his head back as he chuckled throatily.

Stephen snorted, unable to control himself for a brief moment with the sea air whipping his hair in soft tangles and the most of his worries in his relatively young life put to bay. "My future wife can't be put in that category."

"That is true, a fine woman the Queen is, and you a dashing King beside her. Yes, and if you tire of her you need only look toward me." Zevran winked, his golden eyes flashing mischievously.

"I'm not sure how I might have coped this Blight without your levity sometimes. Between Alistair whining, Morrigan complaining, Leliana's dappiness, Sten's complete disdain for everything non-Qunari and Wynne... now there's a woman who used to like me when I did as a good boy ought to, slay the villain that wronged her precious boy but now treats every second in my company as if I were some bloodsucking monster. The best thing I ever did was let you live. Now I have Riordan, Loghain and an Orlesian mage called Griselda to contend with too." Stephen looked at the assassin, flashing him what once had been a common smile but had as of late become rare.

"The best thing that happened to me, my King, was being allowed to live amongst our group and revelling in our successes. I will continue to do so until you ask no more of me." The air between them turned serious, the two men sharing in the fact that despite their very different lives before, that they were friends in this strange world that had brought them together. Zevran smiled impishly. "A true shame you have never taken me up on my offer of my bedroll, a fine warm place to be, between the down and my rippling, tan body!"

Stephen clapped him on the back standing up. "Never change Zevran. A King might need an assassin every so often to lighten his life somewhat, and you never know - a jester position will be available if you line of work becomes slow." Della licked the elf along his curved tattoo that ran his cheek affectionately, making the Antivan jump up and chase her for a moment. For that time, neither had much of a care, no weights of crowns or duty while they waited for what was to come.

There was still a Blight to counter after all, and a country to run for some. People to kill for others. And of course, a ham bone for being a good dog.

* * *

Stephen mounted the Nevarran Pack horse with the help of a squire, a giant brute of a horse with great clomping hooves that had been bred to traverse the mountainous peaks of it's native land. Muscular and able to hold a mighty weight in both rider and supplies it was the perfect horse for both Sten in his seven and a half foot of looming height or Oghren's odious 'necessary' alcohol. It was nothing as beautiful as the Orlesian Trotter nor as fast as the Antivan Barb or even as numerous as the Tevinter Pacer but it was a stunning horse in it's own right.

It might have been wonderful to see the Ferelden Heavy Draft brought back into the country but most with the blood of the horse were mixed breeds, having been bred out or slaughtered in the Occupation as they had tried to do to the Mabari. Say one thing about the Fereldens but if you touch their dogs, they can turn against a man so quick it would make their head spin. It might be an idea to speak to Anora about that after the coronation. To bring back some of the native breeds that had been of the country before.

The Bluefaced Rainesfere had been a lovely sheep if rare now. It would do well to remind the country that they, having faced a Blight without Orlesian help, were a proud, Ferelden people, the southern barbarians of Thedas would be their own, they would always be and that suited them!

The King watched his companions, his merry band of misfits that swore themselves to him in life and limb against the Blight in all but blood, that required becoming a Warden. Excepting of course the two Orlesians, Riordan and Griselda and then Loghain.

It was less odd to have the ex-Regent and his once sworn opponent by his side than to think that the same man would be the grandfather of any children he might have. Stephen took a deep breath, drawing what courage he had now that they would be leaving. Anora was stood at the foot of the palace, lined with uniformed guardsmen all the way up and elegant in both posture and attire.

"I should be back soon. Our armies will march on our words my Queen!" He called out to the faint smiling of Anora as she waved them goodbye.

"I promise not to flay him." Loghain grunted.

Wynne shot him the dirtiest of looks, both disgust and contempt with mild horror, chivvying the horse she had been mounted upon further ahead the ex-Regent. For all his cantankerous nature, Loghain did not rise to the bait, bringing his horse alongside Stephen and shrugging his shoulders. "Farewell! Come back in at least two easily stitch-able pieces!" Anora smiled back gaily, waving in that regal way of twisting at the wrist. Stephen took one look toward his future wife, imprinting the happiness in her face into his memory.

"A joke between father and daughter I assume Loghain?" The King asked, keeping the horse at a neat canter, the supplies each on their horse carried clanked and jangled somewhat, making a pleasant sound and masking the conversations between people who had become unlikely friends. Oghren and Zevran or Leliana and Wynne.

Loghain looked faintly amused, the edge of his lip curling upwards in what may have been a smile. "From when she was a lot smaller, pigtailed and knees-skinned. I warned her that should she insist on climbing trees and playing with certain northern boys that she should come home in two clean cut pieces so her mother could sew her back together neatly," He looked wistfully behind him as Anora was making her way back into the palace. "Then she would remind me the same when I left to quell the Bannorn for Maric."

"Certain northern boys who played dragons, knights and damsels?" Stephen remembered those days, Fergus and Anora forcing him to play the damsel because he was younger than they, father's Mabari and her pups roped into being a dragon and drakes while they two were thick as thieves, knights of the highest order to rescue him. The halcyon days were long gone but it was a relief that he could still retrieve those happier memories.

Fergus and he had played the same game with the three Howe children too, Nathaniel and he were the knights then, forcing Fergus to be the dragon and little Thomas to be the damsel. Delilah had hated playing with boys, especially those her brothers had enjoyed the company of - such days were long gone. They made her play even if she detested it! Too old and cynical to pretend such real horrors again, not while he carried the scars from fighting dragons and would no doubt carry more when the finally faced the Archdemon. That his erstwhile friends were sired by such a monster!

"Ah! Do you remember me at all Loghain?" Zevran smirked as he pulled his horse back, leaning over his horse's mane to flash his face at the other Warden.

"Should I?" He answered the assassin nonplussed.

"But you and a certain... late Teyrn hired me no? You only looked upon me for a few minutes but I would not forget a face I hired to kill others for me, in case of blackmail you see." The Antivan preened, chuckling lightly.

"Ah yes. Not the most intelligent of ideas." Loghain frowned. Stephen had forgiven that old wound a while ago, Zevran had proved to be most useful and loyal man, jovial and crude at times and darkly intelligent. Loghain had sent Zevran to him so he should have thanked him in many ways, many peculiar... ways. Such was the world he lived in, to thank a man for sending an assassin after him.

"Yes, I thought you might like to know I have failed in my mission." Zevran laughed a little louder, much to the ire of Loghain from the furrowing brow and pursed lips.

"I would never have guessed."

"I was terribly torn up about it, but as they say - life moves on if you haven't been killed yet." The elf threw his head back, golden blond hair tousling in the mild wind as he pushed forward again to chat to Oghren.

"I can see how terrible my choice of assassin was. Perhaps I should have sent someone competent." Loghain smirked. Stephen snorted.

"Then who else might I have to make passable jokes and flirt with anything that breathes, has at least two teeth and can remain still enough for a minute?" He rolled his eyes. "Unless of course you think Oghren would make a better substitute? I'm sure he could stun them with his breath first and have lower standards too."

"You're rather joyful today?" Loghain questioned dryly.

"Denerim brings back a lot of memories and dark thoughts that despite the crimes of the man, Rendon Howe was glorified and my family no better than shit beneath their feet. Without being so encumbered in my own mind I have a terrible habit for flippant thoughts, as of late they escape my mouth more frequently. I can be serious again but I see my role as the dour Warden of the group has been usurped." Stephen shook his shoulders out, feeling the weak breezes of the country chilling his skin even underneath his armour. It was true, he felt less encumbered by his own mind despite the weight of the invisible crown on his brow.

"You wish me to joke?"

"Not unless you feel the urge, be yourself but refrain from scowling so often, the wind might set your face that way and then how worried might our resident Orlesians be when you look upon them?" The both of them looked toward the four horses behind them, Leliana, Riordan and Griselda speaking with Wynne. There was no feeling lost between the two women that had been part of the group before since before the cataclysmic Landsmeet, just toward Stephen.

"I shall continue to scowl then." The edge of Loghain's mouth curled again and it was a smile of sorts.

* * *

It had been hard going, the winds and cold that whipped Austurian's Mount flurried the snow capped mountain into a harsh and unforgiving landscape, for rider and horse alike.

Riordan thought it was rather ironic that the mountain was named after the Grey Warden who had built the fortress they sought just after the Second Blight, but spelt wrongly. Stephen was diplomatic enough not to mention that education and writing enough to consistently spell things the same had only come about shortly after the printing press had been created alongside inventions such as newspapers. Austurian or Austrian or however he spelled his name would probably never have cared. Spelling hadn't been so uniform that long ago, he may have even been illiterate before his rank of Warden Commander came about, only the man long dead could say.

The large group had made it though, the fortress was grey and old, a formidable, frost edged fortress surrounded my dilapidated wooden buildings that had once been stables and outhouses. Crumbling statues stuck rebelliously from snow drifts, a sword raised in triumph or a weather worn face peering at a world that had forgotten them.

Stephen's breath added to the ghostly miasma of the Warden Fortress, plumes of dense white from agape, tired mouths as they watched the abnormal stillness. "Haunted with demons and ghosts?" Oghren harrumphed. "Looks like it just got left to rot. This ain't the fun you said it would be." Stephen remembered persuading the dwarf that he wanted to ride a horse so he could put his 'legendary axe to work on demons most foul'. Damn his silver tongue.

"It reminds me of the tale of a lonely princess, awaiting her soldier love to come back from war, growing old and her castle forlorn as the years went past and her lover never returned." Leliana breathed, her lilted voice carrying on the stagnant, frozen air.

"Poppycock, she'd have been deposed by then for not caring for her subjects, a very idle story." Loghain commented with no malice.

"It is just a tale." Leliana snapped back.

"Does it even matter? Did you need open your mouth bard?" Morrigan sniffled, raising her head high. In some respects it was a comfort that Morrigan found the infernal bickering so irking as to berate them. A leader that constantly reprimands never says leader for long. "But there is something malignant about this place, the veil is thin, stretched 'pon breaking for sure, if some great bloodshed happened here I would not be surprised, or something more sinister and magical."

There was a way that the witch of the wilds spoke that made one sure she knew some great truth in the matter but did not wish to truly share it, merely allude to the facts ahead them as if they were simple to figure. Stephen shuddered without thinking about it, dismounting his horse with care for the frosted ground that it may be slippery.

It crunched beneath his boots, softer than expected. He reached out for the reigns of the horse, holding them and tying them to a stone arm holding an axe high. The horse whinnied, annoyed that he would be tied up, puffing angry snorts of breath from his fleshy nose, lips pulled open over long, stained teeth. Stephen took a deep breath, ignoring the antics of the horse. He complained endlessly to be tied up, as Sten's resented the saddle and Riordan's the switch. They were not mere creatures of burden as the Dalish had thought horses to be, but proud creatures that were more intelligent than the average templar in his limited experience. He pat the dark flank affectionately, clicking his tongue. He had ridden since he'd learned to sit still on a saddle and a difficult horse would not worry him so.

"Come on then, let's not dilly dally with staring and find out the truth of this Maker-forsaken shell of a building." He chivvied them. Leliana, Riordan, Griselda, Zevran and Morrigan each managed to dismount with no difficulty, fluid and sly in their movements by nature. Loghain was a fair horseman himself, treating his mount with a kind hand and instinctual understanding. Sten and Oghren found riding most difficult, the dwarf fell off rather than dismounting, harshly grabbing the reigns to lead his horse along with a sharp yank and grunt. Sten simply stepped off with his abnormal height, ignoring the fact the horse may dislike simply being used rather than thought of as another living creature.

"The witch is right, there is something malevolent here." Griselda sniffed, pulling a stitched handkerchief from her sleeve to blow her nose before stuffing it back underneath. The Orlesian apostate mage hated the chill of the mountains with a passion, having managed to pick up a stinking cold within her first night in a bedroll. She drank hot tea with lemon, whiskey and honey each night to soothe it without avail.

Most remained silent, too tired to care much for the information impressing onto their minds. "It should be dark in five hours, that gives us two, possibly three to clear what we can and the rest to cook and eat before we should sleep. Let's move then."

The group, even disillusioned with their leader in the cases of some, trudged behind him as they always did. Stephen looked down at his most faithful friend, Della, loping beside him in the high snow with a face of doggy contentment. He had the horrid feeling it was going to be a long, harrowing day and new scars. Just a feeling in his gut said that.

* * *

_"I swear, this is the last time the Wardens will ever sight Ferelden soil as long as I live and breathe." The soldier grunted, winching back the catapult alongside his comrade, taking care not to catch his fingers in the mechanisms._

_"Yeah, damned Dryden should've just taken her new duty with a pinch of pride rather than thinking she should be Queen. Arland's been sending missives, expecting this stupid rebellion to be ended soon."_

_"I don't know, Sophia Dryden might've been a good Queen-consort and we wouldn't have lost a good three hundred men in this civil war."_

_"Look, just because she wants something don't mean she should have it. Lots of people think they'd be a good King or Queen. Arland shouldn't have to capitulate to a usurper."_

_"I'd rather get married than send sodders like us to fight people who used to be our friends." _

_The two soldiers let the catapult be filled with heavy rocks before the let the mechanism shoot their projectiles at the great wooden doors, splintering them somewhat. _

* * *

Stephen shook his head, trying to clear his vision of what had been so real, so jarring. He looked toward where the catapult had landed the boulders, seeing a gaping darkness where a great door had been in the vision, stone abused and broken around, ancient scorch marks on the stone.

A rattling cry brought his mind into sober focus, a death breath that had become too familiar because of the demons at Redcliffe, the elven ruins in the Brecillian Forest and the circle tower of Kinloch Hold.

His sword came easily to his hand, unsheathed with a glint of the enchanted metal. Sandal and Bodahn had elected to stay in Denerim a while, the small group had been nice for them to stay in but an army was too much for the dwarven duo. The Cousland family blade sank deep into the skull that was rearing through the snow, a sickening crack the sound of an awakening corpse being ended.

"That won't be the only one." He growled, the fury of a berserker slipping into his blood itself, his vision tainted red at the edges. There was the sonorous scrape of weaponry unsheathed by armoured fighters, the rustle of robes and squeak of careworn leathers. The air fizzed with magic being built up by three mages, Morrigan springing into the form of a giant spider, nimbly awaiting attack, Wynne creating a blanket of numbing magic that lessened the feeling of wounds mid-battle and Griselda vanished, a wisp in the air but nothing more.

Riordan and Leliana knocked back arrows, the bowstrings taut to their cheeks as they stood either side of the elderly Spirit Healer.

The scrambling and click of demonically reanimated skeletal corpses, mummified by the cold so their flesh stuck in morbid icicles to their rotting bones became louder as they descended unto them from inside the fortress, some with weapons but most without even a scrap of clothing.

Stephen swung his sword with practised strength, shattering through a skeleton from the groin up, the bones skittering oddly wetly around him, coating the front of his chestplate and arm in a black, sticky splatter of ichor, frozen dust and stringy tendons. His mouth became a sneer, fixed upon the next corpse on it's journey toward him when he charged at it, hilting the sword in the gut of the creature, pulling Theirin heraldry around his sword as he withdrew it upwards, the sickly squish of organs that had started to work again simply for animation of bones and the frozen crack of flesh slicing through his soul.

The King swallowed the bile in his mouth, ignoring his own wretchedness when it came to these foul creatures. Some people feared spiders, snakes, heights and all sorts of nonsensical things. Stephen feared the undead, in his dreams his parents would stumble, bloodied and crying toward him, blaming him for their demise at the hands of a twisted madman. The undead were gruesome and one hoped that their relatives would prefer peace to their loved one's body to be used as a puppet by a demon but it was still sick work. The next corpse had a sword and shield of his own, defending a shoddy blow to the midsection that should have sent it into the snowy banks.

The corpse raised the sword when Stephen narrowed his eyes. A mist formed inside the morbid holes of wounds the corpse had sustained in life, suddenly breaking it from the inside out. Griselda stood in front of him, a smirk on her tanned face. She blew him a kiss then vanished again. Bloody Orlesian mages...

* * *

Loghain hadn't felt at ease around so much animosity but with a sword in hand and at least some competence of combat in those around him, it was not comfortable but not as agitated as it had been. They were a focused group, their bickers and quarrels disappeared in battle and they fought like a well oiled machine.

He seemed to fit into that machine like a primed cog. "I really hate reanimated corpses." Stephen bemoaned just ahead of him.

"That I know my friend. I shall assassinate them upon your whims." The elf quipped. Loghain stepped over a long abandoned pile of rubble, covered in slippery frost and nearly toppling into a weak looking wall.

The footing at the entrance of the fortress was hardly simple to walk in or around and most of them stumbled somewhat, even the slick Orlesians with their feigned grace and nimbleness. Stephen gasped, turning a ghostly pale. "We do not want to go any further unless you really want to face demons."

"They cannot be that bad, the circle tower was simple enough." The bard sniffled.

"He does not lie," Griselda preened. "When one fights alongside a templar long enough one can pick up a few tricks as it were."

"These demons were summoned, it wasn't an accident they're here." Stephen croaked out.

"Then they pose a threat to your country no my King?" Wynne tutted in her absolute exasperation. Surely as a mage, Loghain pondered, she would know the dangers here? Or was she that bitter as to put her liege in danger?

"Then we're all fighting beside you. There's no need to think of this in singular terms. Just tell me rough numbers." Loghain nodded, it felt right to say it, a counsel of military tactics and why should his knowledge go to waste for pity's sake and ill-feeling toward him.

"The last time you gave tactical advice you cost Ferelden her King." The elderly crone of a mage hissed between her teeth.

"The last time was quelling the Bannorn in the Apple Tree Rebellion of Dragon 9:29 - Cailan and Duncan coerced their way into the fall of Ostagar by putting all their eggs in one basket and standing there with a suit of flashy armour and waving their arms about like virgin sacrifices. I've held my tongue long enough about this stupid notion you have Wynne but the mages scuppered from the battlefield too and I swear Loghain can't heal the dead or close to anywhere as well as you can. Now either you can understand that Loghain is a part of our chummy little group or you can remain silent." The air was chillier as the last strays of white breath curled into the already foggy early afternoon. The Cousland lad looked like a man possessed, pale and sickly with a light sheen of sweat sticking his hair to his forehead.

"I knew you would crack to her meddling at some point." The swamp witch sneered.

"You can shut your marsh born arse too. Is there something wrong with him?" Loghain asked of the damned healer, glaring at her with a scowl that could etch glass on better days.

"If one cannot use templar talents to their full discipline it can be taxing. I would suggest lyrium if it were not so addictive." Griselda sniffed. Loghain switched his glare to the Orlesian apostate.

"How about you lot shut up. Stephen lad, pay attention to the beast. The beast survives, the beast wants to fight eh? Now let's get those sodding demons back to wherever in the Void they came from?" Oghren, usually drunk and jovial was serious, levelling his leader and student of berserker arts with a fixed stare. Stephen nodded, gulping thickly. He likely hadn't even realised with Maric's bastard bolstering what talents templars had in the volatile group.

"Speak Loghain, else Oghren's right, the beast will want to fight and you can all run after me." His skin started to darken as blood was flowing through his cheeks again, a set grim expression on his features that was oddly familiar to the deposed Regent.

The wind whistled forlornly through the fortress, as if taunting them after it. "Alright. How many, estimate and positions if you can my King. Then we'll hash this out."

There were reluctant nods of heads but they retreated to a stable footing, listening to each other for once, the atmosphere chilly but slowly warming.


End file.
